Can I start off by bragging how wonderful I feel that this year I managed to send out Christmas cards? Now, I haven't hit everyone on my list yet and I have embarassingly managed to lose a few addresses along the way (I don't like AOL for mail, but that's the address a lot of folks have for me), but still, I've sent out 32 freaking cards!! Aren't I wonderful?!?
However, my annual Christmas bash won't be happening this year. I've been so distracted by work (damn embryonic lethality to hell) and family (shopping trips) and bills (getting two insurance companies to cover my "little" ER trip back in October) and accidents (twisting my ankle while jogging up last block to home; finding my parked car had been hit by a vanpool) that I just couldn't seem to find the time to get some folks together for booze and baked brie. It's too bad, because I love to plan parties, and my apartment could sorely use the excuse for a big clean-up, but this year, it just wasn't meant to be.
Little Brother had his birthday yesterday. The family celebration was the night before, but last night I got to hang with the young'uns and feast on sushi and witness the aftermath of sake bombardment on a small horde of less-than-thirtysomethings. As the DD du jour, I meekly sipped on my sake cup and had a glass of plum wine, while Little Brother got toasted with surprising restraint. He drank a lot, to be sure, but passed on offers of moving to another locale so that he could be functional at work the next day. Three or four years ago, I'm sure he would've succumbed to the peer pressure of the moment, but this time, he was, well, mature. It made me feel old in a very new way, to see him be sensible.
I comforted myself with a healthy glass of whiskey when I got home much later last night.
16 December 2006
01 December 2006
translations for the fanfic virgins
"plot bunny" = random idea for a short story, often conceived while brushing teeth; likely to reproduce uncontrollably
"lurker" = someone who reads online stories, blogs, message boards, etc. without posting comments, responses, etc.
"flamer" = someone who reads online stories, blogs, message boards, etc. and posts nasty and unhelpful comments such as: "This story SUXXXXXXXX!!!!!! And so do YOU!!"
ps I've not been "flamed" yet.
"lurker" = someone who reads online stories, blogs, message boards, etc. without posting comments, responses, etc.
"flamer" = someone who reads online stories, blogs, message boards, etc. and posts nasty and unhelpful comments such as: "This story SUXXXXXXXX!!!!!! And so do YOU!!"
ps I've not been "flamed" yet.
30 November 2006
a second of glory
I have long diddled in (mostly fiction) writing. I have a few stories I work on from time to time. But I have very recently dipped a toe or two in the surprisingly vast waters of fanfiction. I don't know how this particular plot bunny hopped into view but I had to chase it down...and after some serious lip-chewing I decided to go ahead and post it online. It's about three-quarters finished now, after occasional writing sessions over the last month, and I've been posting chapters as they're finished.
Being a lurker of fanficdom I thought the ultimate glory for a fanfic author came from how many people bothered to write a review of the story. The more reviews, presumably the better the story (occasional flamers nonwithstanding). I didn't realize until someone wrote me with a comment about the story that fanfic authors can check "stats" telling them how many hits their stories have garnered; plus, you can also see whether you've been listed as someone else's "favorite author" or your story is someone's "favorite story". You can even see if someone has tagged your work for email "alerts" when you update your story.
Though I've only had a handful of reviews, they've been embarassingly fawning and glowing.
With some trepidation, I just checked my stats.
"Hits" = 1224
"Favs" = 2
"Alerts" = 6
Cool.
Being a lurker of fanficdom I thought the ultimate glory for a fanfic author came from how many people bothered to write a review of the story. The more reviews, presumably the better the story (occasional flamers nonwithstanding). I didn't realize until someone wrote me with a comment about the story that fanfic authors can check "stats" telling them how many hits their stories have garnered; plus, you can also see whether you've been listed as someone else's "favorite author" or your story is someone's "favorite story". You can even see if someone has tagged your work for email "alerts" when you update your story.
Though I've only had a handful of reviews, they've been embarassingly fawning and glowing.
With some trepidation, I just checked my stats.
"Hits" = 1224
"Favs" = 2
"Alerts" = 6
Cool.
22 November 2006
just freaking great
A little disclaimer: the following post will be mostly technobabble if you aren't familiar with the process of making a knockout mouse. Still, I just have to spill it all out. Mainly because I still am struggling with this result (hence the hour of this posting...).
Today I genotyped 36 pups from 6 different het-het mating litters. Some of the litters were quite small (3-5 pups), but for first-time mothers you never know what to expect.
What I didn't expect, however, was the results that I got...of the 36 (live) pups, exactly 12 were wild-type, 24 were heterozygotes. Just what you'd expect if the homozygous mutants are embryonic lethal.
Now, I will rerun a few of the PCRs just to be sure, but I'm quite convinced that I'll get the same results. All of these pups were around 2 weeks old. I have a couple more litters I will be able to tail early next week, and of course I'm working on getting those 6 moms pregnant again (left the dads in the mating cages so that they'll get pregnant again ASAP), so I'll have to see what happens with a second set of pregnancies.
I've been turning over in my head all sorts of other potential explanations, apart from 1) embryonic lethality and 2) just the odds, given 1st time pregnancies and some small litter sizes. One is that in knocking out PKal I've screwed up something else. If you recall, one of the cytochrome P450 genes is upstream of PKal (though its LAST coding exon is about 10 kb upstream of the PKal ATG), and Factor XI is just downstream (about 8 kb between PKal's end and FXI's start). FXI KOs have been made and they're fine, so that can't be it; I will have to redo some serious digging but I saw no mention of any downstream regulatory elements for cytochrome P450 when I was planning this strategy before. But somehow I think that this possibility of an unforseen effect on another gene is pretty small.
I'll have to see how the next couple of litters turn out, and until then, I will have to do some refresher reading up on mouse embryology. Just in case. I will also write Dave to see what sort of litter sizes he got in his F2 generation of gene trap mice; if 50:50 Bl/6:129 litters usually give 8 or 9 pups then maybe it's just an odds thing; however, if they are usually more robust, yielding 12-14 pups, then I'll know I'm on to something.
What vexes me the most is that I didn't flox the gene because it wasn't supposed to be freaking embryonic lethal! Aaargh! Now I know how I'm going to spend my Thanksgiving break...refreshing myself on mouse embryology.
Today I genotyped 36 pups from 6 different het-het mating litters. Some of the litters were quite small (3-5 pups), but for first-time mothers you never know what to expect.
What I didn't expect, however, was the results that I got...of the 36 (live) pups, exactly 12 were wild-type, 24 were heterozygotes. Just what you'd expect if the homozygous mutants are embryonic lethal.
Now, I will rerun a few of the PCRs just to be sure, but I'm quite convinced that I'll get the same results. All of these pups were around 2 weeks old. I have a couple more litters I will be able to tail early next week, and of course I'm working on getting those 6 moms pregnant again (left the dads in the mating cages so that they'll get pregnant again ASAP), so I'll have to see what happens with a second set of pregnancies.
I've been turning over in my head all sorts of other potential explanations, apart from 1) embryonic lethality and 2) just the odds, given 1st time pregnancies and some small litter sizes. One is that in knocking out PKal I've screwed up something else. If you recall, one of the cytochrome P450 genes is upstream of PKal (though its LAST coding exon is about 10 kb upstream of the PKal ATG), and Factor XI is just downstream (about 8 kb between PKal's end and FXI's start). FXI KOs have been made and they're fine, so that can't be it; I will have to redo some serious digging but I saw no mention of any downstream regulatory elements for cytochrome P450 when I was planning this strategy before. But somehow I think that this possibility of an unforseen effect on another gene is pretty small.
I'll have to see how the next couple of litters turn out, and until then, I will have to do some refresher reading up on mouse embryology. Just in case. I will also write Dave to see what sort of litter sizes he got in his F2 generation of gene trap mice; if 50:50 Bl/6:129 litters usually give 8 or 9 pups then maybe it's just an odds thing; however, if they are usually more robust, yielding 12-14 pups, then I'll know I'm on to something.
What vexes me the most is that I didn't flox the gene because it wasn't supposed to be freaking embryonic lethal! Aaargh! Now I know how I'm going to spend my Thanksgiving break...refreshing myself on mouse embryology.
05 October 2006
le jeu s'en fait
She knew it was all over when she saw the little droplets of her saliva cascading down her chest, sparkling on her black cashmere sweater like a 50s Czech bead appliqué. She'd thus far successfully hidden or stifled her yawns, but this time there was no escape -- she'd gleeked when she yawned. At first she thought she'd only decorated her hand with the evidence of her boredom, but she was horrified when she glanced down to covertly aim her wet hand towards her napkin -- she saw the incontrovertible truth of her disinterest on her sweater.
The game was up. The date was over.
She could have predicted this outcome at the very beginning of the date, when she shook his hand in greeting. She preferred a man's hands to be warm and dry, a little rough; she could forgive hot and sweaty and might even find that flattering, but this man's hands were beyond redemption. Cold and clammy didn't cut it. It was more as though a labrador had coated every surface of his hands with gritty drool and then he'd thrust his hands into the icebox for a half hour. Not good.
And the conversation? Oh, she'd thought him witty enough as they'd waited to get their cars serviced the previous morning, but that humor had since dried up. Perhaps his conversation skills were only fresh in the morning? Unfortunately, hers were sharpest in the evening. And though she knew she was particularly ebullient and endearing that evening (unfortunately, her scintillating bon mots were too difficult to recall when she'd write in her blog later), she had, in all fairness, given him ample chance to shine. After the salad course, it became clear she'd have to keep her self amused for the rest of the meal and launched into an impressive string of reassuingly typical-but-not-trite topics that he could pick up if he'd only use half the brain he'd seemed to have when they first met. Alas, it was not to be.
"I'd love to move someplace where it rains more than it does here -- enough to relieve any guilty feelings I have when I indulge in some healthy melancholy."
"I like the sun. It's nice and warm."
Enough said. Check, no mate.
The game was up. The date was over.
She could have predicted this outcome at the very beginning of the date, when she shook his hand in greeting. She preferred a man's hands to be warm and dry, a little rough; she could forgive hot and sweaty and might even find that flattering, but this man's hands were beyond redemption. Cold and clammy didn't cut it. It was more as though a labrador had coated every surface of his hands with gritty drool and then he'd thrust his hands into the icebox for a half hour. Not good.
And the conversation? Oh, she'd thought him witty enough as they'd waited to get their cars serviced the previous morning, but that humor had since dried up. Perhaps his conversation skills were only fresh in the morning? Unfortunately, hers were sharpest in the evening. And though she knew she was particularly ebullient and endearing that evening (unfortunately, her scintillating bon mots were too difficult to recall when she'd write in her blog later), she had, in all fairness, given him ample chance to shine. After the salad course, it became clear she'd have to keep her self amused for the rest of the meal and launched into an impressive string of reassuingly typical-but-not-trite topics that he could pick up if he'd only use half the brain he'd seemed to have when they first met. Alas, it was not to be.
"I'd love to move someplace where it rains more than it does here -- enough to relieve any guilty feelings I have when I indulge in some healthy melancholy."
"I like the sun. It's nice and warm."
Enough said. Check, no mate.
25 July 2006
if, like me, you were worried about the dog...
...in the movie "Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest", which was about the only thing that got my heart rate up in the watching of that movie, be sure to stay through the VERY LONG credits for a little clip at the end.
15 July 2006
hair today
Perhaps it was the beginning of the new season of "Project Runway" that pushed me over the edge, but I have been feeling frumpy and stale recently so, by Jennifer standards, I made some fairly radical changes to my hair.
Or so I had thought.
A week ago I went to Connie-from-Chicago, who I'd had cut my hair before but I had not visited her in easily a couple of years and she has now conveniently moved just a few blocks from Union Square. I trusted her to gussy up my tresses and she magically gave me a cut that would take advantage of my not-curly-but-not-straight-either hair. I was happy. And it was still long enough to keep my tender neck protected while scootering. Problem was, it now made my not-blonde-not-brown-not-really-any-particular-shade hair look, rightfully, like it's not seen the sun in dog's years. So I bit the bullet and went back for color on Thursday night.
Three different shades now sat atop my head. I liked the way it looked in the salon but when I got home and saw my face in my pseudonaturally lit bathroom mirrow, I freaked a bit. Sure, all over it looks "richer" (Connie's description) but I felt like I was trying to look like a rock star. And then it hit me: the next day I'd be going to UCOP for my last admissions committee meeting. Would anyone in that staid building gasp or roll their eyes at me?
Not a word from anyone.
So I thought I'd spring the 'do on someone who knows me well: Hannah. We arranged to meet for dinner in Hayward and though the restaurant not very well lit I thought surely she'd gasp or give me theHannahlook. She did say my hair looked nice styled but she said nothing about the color. Not a peep! So somewhere in the middle of our sushi feast I couldn't stand it any longer and I blurted out something I instantly hated myself for saying: "So you haven't said anything about my hair." I even pouted, I'm ashamed to say. She ignored my childishness and said she didn't think my hair looked altogether very different! In fact, fairly similar to how it used to look when it used to spend more time in the sun. Hm.
So all the way home I started to wonder if I'd made such a radical change after all. Rock star, indeed. So does that mean I didn't get my money's worth? I am clearly unaccustomed to this whole primping thing.
Or so I had thought.
A week ago I went to Connie-from-Chicago, who I'd had cut my hair before but I had not visited her in easily a couple of years and she has now conveniently moved just a few blocks from Union Square. I trusted her to gussy up my tresses and she magically gave me a cut that would take advantage of my not-curly-but-not-straight-either hair. I was happy. And it was still long enough to keep my tender neck protected while scootering. Problem was, it now made my not-blonde-not-brown-not-really-any-particular-shade hair look, rightfully, like it's not seen the sun in dog's years. So I bit the bullet and went back for color on Thursday night.
Three different shades now sat atop my head. I liked the way it looked in the salon but when I got home and saw my face in my pseudonaturally lit bathroom mirrow, I freaked a bit. Sure, all over it looks "richer" (Connie's description) but I felt like I was trying to look like a rock star. And then it hit me: the next day I'd be going to UCOP for my last admissions committee meeting. Would anyone in that staid building gasp or roll their eyes at me?
Not a word from anyone.
So I thought I'd spring the 'do on someone who knows me well: Hannah. We arranged to meet for dinner in Hayward and though the restaurant not very well lit I thought surely she'd gasp or give me theHannahlook. She did say my hair looked nice styled but she said nothing about the color. Not a peep! So somewhere in the middle of our sushi feast I couldn't stand it any longer and I blurted out something I instantly hated myself for saying: "So you haven't said anything about my hair." I even pouted, I'm ashamed to say. She ignored my childishness and said she didn't think my hair looked altogether very different! In fact, fairly similar to how it used to look when it used to spend more time in the sun. Hm.
So all the way home I started to wonder if I'd made such a radical change after all. Rock star, indeed. So does that mean I didn't get my money's worth? I am clearly unaccustomed to this whole primping thing.
03 July 2006
a musing
O, the time for you approaches
and the heart jumps back and forth
and almost as though you were pressing
two moist fingers there my breath falters
at the base of my throat.
The mind recalls the last conversation and
a thousand pictures
(smile, eyes closed,
bent over to retrieve a fallen pen,
an elegant hand the vein wants me to touch it)
of you are hung all 'round.
The peculiar vibration
that belongs only to your voice is my
favorite sound second only to the shuffle of
your step just around the corner.
You smell of nothing in a world of odious aromas
and this pleases me in a way only I can know.
The time for you approaches but
the ache of seconds waiting watching
each one a pulse of delight.
and the heart jumps back and forth
and almost as though you were pressing
two moist fingers there my breath falters
at the base of my throat.
The mind recalls the last conversation and
a thousand pictures
(smile, eyes closed,
bent over to retrieve a fallen pen,
an elegant hand the vein wants me to touch it)
of you are hung all 'round.
The peculiar vibration
that belongs only to your voice is my
favorite sound second only to the shuffle of
your step just around the corner.
You smell of nothing in a world of odious aromas
and this pleases me in a way only I can know.
The time for you approaches but
the ache of seconds waiting watching
each one a pulse of delight.
07 June 2006
the naked guy is dead
Wow. Haven't posted in a month! Guess I've been busy.
Talking to my brother last night, we discussed a random topic -- the death of the "Naked Guy". I found out through an eerie happenstance: I was walking down Broadway in Oakland with Eric, an about-to-graduate UCLA undergrad, heading to Everett & Jones for BBQ with the rest of the Board on Admissions and Relations with Schools for UC. It was quite windy and as we passed underneath the 880, a lot of papers and trash were floating about. Suddenly a newspaper page landed on my leg, and after sticking there for a moment fell away onto the sidewalk in front of me. At the top of the page read a headline proclaiming that Berkeley's "Naked Guy" had died...in jail...of apparent suicide. Apparently he'd suffered from mental illness in recent years (though some would say he did all the way back in the early 90s when he'd strode around the Berkeley campus in the nude) and killed himself in jail.
This revelation juxtaposed creepily with my "Naked Guy" encounter from 1992. A lowly freshman with my nose in a Western Civ text (probably Euripides, whom I always detested), I was walking up the south side of Bancroft Avenue and somewhere in the vicinity of Cafe Milano (still there, I'm happy to say), I literally ran into a pair of buns with the book. My very first thought was, "I hope I didn't cause a paper cut", when the owner of said derierre turned around. I saw he'd been talking to a petite blonde, and he looked down on me as I eeped out an apology. Not that I was intimidated or repulsed by his nudity, but I was awfully embarassed to have run into such a sensitive spot. And I did note that he wasn't walking around naked because of his large...ego.
I remember that we occasionally saw him donning a bandana (large part in front) and we always hoped he sat in the same seat in lecture (I had Anthropology 3 with him, I think) because it would just be too icky to think you might be sitting where he did the previous class. After he'd been expelled for refusing to clothe himself, he supposedly went on a grand speaking tour to lecture college kids about the evils of consumerism that forced Gap tee shirts over our heads (which back then were only starting to break out of the gym clothes-basics that we'd all known in the 80s). I guess one can only go publicly nude for so long (apart from the 12K of Bay to Breakers).
For more on the death of Andrew Martinez aka the "Naked Guy", go here.
Talking to my brother last night, we discussed a random topic -- the death of the "Naked Guy". I found out through an eerie happenstance: I was walking down Broadway in Oakland with Eric, an about-to-graduate UCLA undergrad, heading to Everett & Jones for BBQ with the rest of the Board on Admissions and Relations with Schools for UC. It was quite windy and as we passed underneath the 880, a lot of papers and trash were floating about. Suddenly a newspaper page landed on my leg, and after sticking there for a moment fell away onto the sidewalk in front of me. At the top of the page read a headline proclaiming that Berkeley's "Naked Guy" had died...in jail...of apparent suicide. Apparently he'd suffered from mental illness in recent years (though some would say he did all the way back in the early 90s when he'd strode around the Berkeley campus in the nude) and killed himself in jail.
This revelation juxtaposed creepily with my "Naked Guy" encounter from 1992. A lowly freshman with my nose in a Western Civ text (probably Euripides, whom I always detested), I was walking up the south side of Bancroft Avenue and somewhere in the vicinity of Cafe Milano (still there, I'm happy to say), I literally ran into a pair of buns with the book. My very first thought was, "I hope I didn't cause a paper cut", when the owner of said derierre turned around. I saw he'd been talking to a petite blonde, and he looked down on me as I eeped out an apology. Not that I was intimidated or repulsed by his nudity, but I was awfully embarassed to have run into such a sensitive spot. And I did note that he wasn't walking around naked because of his large...ego.
I remember that we occasionally saw him donning a bandana (large part in front) and we always hoped he sat in the same seat in lecture (I had Anthropology 3 with him, I think) because it would just be too icky to think you might be sitting where he did the previous class. After he'd been expelled for refusing to clothe himself, he supposedly went on a grand speaking tour to lecture college kids about the evils of consumerism that forced Gap tee shirts over our heads (which back then were only starting to break out of the gym clothes-basics that we'd all known in the 80s). I guess one can only go publicly nude for so long (apart from the 12K of Bay to Breakers).
For more on the death of Andrew Martinez aka the "Naked Guy", go here.
05 May 2006
wiggle
Wouldn't it be cool if I could dance as well as the kid (and the cow) on the Jello Chocolate Pudding commercial?
Apparently the jingle is getting a lot of attention. FYI (thanks Google) the lyric goes: "Jiggle and a Wigglin' free, in a Wiggle and Jigglin' spree." It is sung by Ed of the Barenaked Ladies. Who knew.
Apparently the jingle is getting a lot of attention. FYI (thanks Google) the lyric goes: "Jiggle and a Wigglin' free, in a Wiggle and Jigglin' spree." It is sung by Ed of the Barenaked Ladies. Who knew.
29 April 2006
saturday night's all right
So I'm alone here in the lab on a Saturday night listening to Imagine Avenue Radio and I suppose I should feel strange about this but I do not. I'm actually quite fine with it. If I were out, I'd be spending money I don't really have, and if I were in, I'd be at home pursuing a useless plot bunny on my laptop while eyeing the TiVo. So at least I'm doing something low-cost and productive whilst sharpening my movie soundtrack identification skills.
Today I took a wrong turn crossing the city to get from the lower Mission (where I bookended my mouse knockout/cloning experience by visiting Mitchell's for some Macapuno ice cream with my brother and his girlfriend; I last went there with Fred and Janet for the same when I'd finished the knockout construct) to the inner Sunset. I ended up on one of those crazy little split streets that curve and bend along the hills of San Francisco. This one presented me with a "Not A Through Street" after I'd already committed to it, so I followed it until I got to a point where I could turn my car around easily. Near the end of the tiny street, I happened upon Corwin Community Garden, a little oasis clinging to the hill above the Castro. How many other little gems will I never see in San Francisco? The sun was quite low at this point and I needed to get to the lab, but I vowed to return in the sun to visit this place. Of course, I've made many such vows over my years here, and I've yet even to see most of Golden Gate Park....
Hm. Off to the dark room.
Today I took a wrong turn crossing the city to get from the lower Mission (where I bookended my mouse knockout/cloning experience by visiting Mitchell's for some Macapuno ice cream with my brother and his girlfriend; I last went there with Fred and Janet for the same when I'd finished the knockout construct) to the inner Sunset. I ended up on one of those crazy little split streets that curve and bend along the hills of San Francisco. This one presented me with a "Not A Through Street" after I'd already committed to it, so I followed it until I got to a point where I could turn my car around easily. Near the end of the tiny street, I happened upon Corwin Community Garden, a little oasis clinging to the hill above the Castro. How many other little gems will I never see in San Francisco? The sun was quite low at this point and I needed to get to the lab, but I vowed to return in the sun to visit this place. Of course, I've made many such vows over my years here, and I've yet even to see most of Golden Gate Park....
Hm. Off to the dark room.
04 April 2006
passion (now don't get too excited)
The word has come up a lot lately, and it's been running around in my head for the last several days. I've had a couple of conversations about it, and they've both boiled down to: what is my passion in life? When coupled with a weekend saturated with period semi-romantic films (thanks a lot, netflix) and fever/phlegm/aches of the latest bug, that leads to a whole lotta introspection and brooding about my future.
I can't remember exactly when I first read "The Beast in the Jungle" by Henry James -- I suspect it was included in the collection we used to study "The Turn of the Screw" -- but ever since it has haunted me. If ever someone wanted to examine one of my deeper fears then by all means read it (it's a rather short story). If you don't want to take the time to read it (spoilers ahead!) then, in short, it's a character study of a man who spends his entire life believing he is destined for some great thing only to realize in the waning of his life that, in waiting for this great thing, his destiny became that nothing at all was to ever happen to him.
That's been my concern for some time now. Not that I suffer from overwhelming egomania, but I do feel that I could accomplish a lot in life if only I could discover that great thing, the undeniable talent, the goal that would be my passion for life. However, I've gotten this far in life and I've yet to discover fully what that thing is. This is not to say that I'm not inspired by people around me or the work that I do; I may be a masochist (see previous postings) but I'm not one to pursue people or work that hold no interest for me (or interest in me, for that matter!). I would like find a calling to make my stomach twist and brain burn with with deep and sustained passion. And I'd like it to happen sooner rather than later, lest I become a cautionary example of yet another victim of the Beast.
I can't remember exactly when I first read "The Beast in the Jungle" by Henry James -- I suspect it was included in the collection we used to study "The Turn of the Screw" -- but ever since it has haunted me. If ever someone wanted to examine one of my deeper fears then by all means read it (it's a rather short story). If you don't want to take the time to read it (spoilers ahead!) then, in short, it's a character study of a man who spends his entire life believing he is destined for some great thing only to realize in the waning of his life that, in waiting for this great thing, his destiny became that nothing at all was to ever happen to him.
That's been my concern for some time now. Not that I suffer from overwhelming egomania, but I do feel that I could accomplish a lot in life if only I could discover that great thing, the undeniable talent, the goal that would be my passion for life. However, I've gotten this far in life and I've yet to discover fully what that thing is. This is not to say that I'm not inspired by people around me or the work that I do; I may be a masochist (see previous postings) but I'm not one to pursue people or work that hold no interest for me (or interest in me, for that matter!). I would like find a calling to make my stomach twist and brain burn with with deep and sustained passion. And I'd like it to happen sooner rather than later, lest I become a cautionary example of yet another victim of the Beast.
21 March 2006
behind the watershed
The last 10 days or so has definitely been a watershed period in my life. It started with attending a retreat put on by the Woodhull Institute (www.woodhull.org) for young women in ethical leadership. Though there's certainly a lot I could share about my experience that weekend, I will keep it short and say that I was forced to deal with things I'd put aside for sanity's sake -- like reflecting on the three years I worked with UCSA -- and I met some truly amazing and inspiring women. I then had to return to the lab and write a "progress" report for my fellowship (I am particularly proud of my carefully crafted phrase: "The locus for my gene of interest is apparently resistant to standard molecular cloning techniques" or something like that), due at Fort Detrick Tuesday at 2:00 p.m. - gulp. The next morning I presented my research -- focusing on the positives -- for a mammary gland group here at UCSF and received wonderful feedback, interesting questions, and a new perspective on my project. That night, little brother's band performed and I drank a few too many vodka collinses. Ah well...visit You Tube for a low-tech clip of Goodbye Matt's take on an ol' favorite, dedicated to Dani for her birthday.
The next night, I hung with Chris and the lovely woman he's dating at the Warriors v. T-Wolves game...hardly invigorating game-wise but it was nice to spend some "down time" with the little bro after the frenetic show the previous night. Friday I drove down to San Jose for Korean food with Hannah and friends (fantastic tubu and kimchee) and to see "V for Vendetta". I have to say all the "current administration parallels and endorsement of terrorism" hype is, in my humble opinion, way overdone. I did enjoy the movie, though; its blatant (and some more subtle) references to one of my favorite works of childhood, "The Count of Monte Cristo", were appealing and the performances well-executed (in particular I have renewed love for Stephen Rea). I saw it more as a cautionary tale along the lines of "1984" with a splash of "12 Monkeys" and even "The Phantom of the Opera".
Off and on these last several days I've been aiding Hannah in pre-wedding planning -- humorous attempts at cake decorating and wedding band buying and such. And as my clones are wending their way towards Davis to be karyotyped (analysis of chromosome number), I am attacking my lab work with a new vigor; alas, jaded soul that I am, I know that can't last....
The next night, I hung with Chris and the lovely woman he's dating at the Warriors v. T-Wolves game...hardly invigorating game-wise but it was nice to spend some "down time" with the little bro after the frenetic show the previous night. Friday I drove down to San Jose for Korean food with Hannah and friends (fantastic tubu and kimchee) and to see "V for Vendetta". I have to say all the "current administration parallels and endorsement of terrorism" hype is, in my humble opinion, way overdone. I did enjoy the movie, though; its blatant (and some more subtle) references to one of my favorite works of childhood, "The Count of Monte Cristo", were appealing and the performances well-executed (in particular I have renewed love for Stephen Rea). I saw it more as a cautionary tale along the lines of "1984" with a splash of "12 Monkeys" and even "The Phantom of the Opera".
Off and on these last several days I've been aiding Hannah in pre-wedding planning -- humorous attempts at cake decorating and wedding band buying and such. And as my clones are wending their way towards Davis to be karyotyped (analysis of chromosome number), I am attacking my lab work with a new vigor; alas, jaded soul that I am, I know that can't last....
08 March 2006
karma and chicken
This last weekend I lost my Vegas virginity. Despite having lived in California for about 93.5% of my life, I'd never before been to Las Vegas. To some, this admission was met with incredulity or scorn; to others, it was a mark of good sense or prudishness. In any case, I went to help my friend scout out potential wedding ceremony sites. We spent about 45 hours (less than 6 of which were spent asleep) running around town, up and down The Strip, doing some gambing, eating, shopping...it was all craziness, but enjoyable purely because it was so very different from what I do from day to day. It is hard to believe that so many people go there so often, as it surely wouldn't be my first choice for a vacation destination and I am clearly not cut out to be a big-time gambler (On my first and only previous Roulette experience, 27 had been my lucky number; this time, I played for about 3.5 hours and 27 didn't "hit" once. Not a single time.). "Ostentation" was the word that kept coming to mind, along with Elvis' ghastly "Viva Las Vegas" song. Ugh.
Utterly exhausted and mind-numbed from the trip, immediately I drove from the airport to home, to shower and take a nap before attempting to go to the laboratory. After a bit of work, I faced a rainy drive home to an empty fridge, so I stopped for chicken at Popeye's (an occasional indulgence). A homeless man silently opened the door for me when I approached, and while waiting for my dinner I noticed he opened the door for all the patrons coming and going, never saying a word. Seized by a sudden need to purge my Vegas weekend, I decided to give him a dollar when I left. When I saw my order come up, I realized that they had screwed up my order (giving me more than I'd planned to eat). So when I approached the door and the man opened the door for me, I gave him the dollar and then the food. I smiled and started to walk away, and I saw a pathetically stunned look on his face, a look that I would have branded as sarcastic on a less needy person. But his surprise seemed genuine; I was surprised even more when as I turned to go to my car I saw out of the corner of my eye that he was reaching towards me, arms outstretched, clearly wanting to give me a hug. I returned the gesture, caught in an embrace so tight I felt I'd have bruises on my shoulderblades from the pressure of his grip. I admit I had a moment of fear as I stood there helplessly caught, but I heard him whisper "thank you, thank you" over and over again until I patted his back and wished him good luck, pulling back and rushing out into the drizzle to reach my car. I was unnerved more by the genuine strength of his gratitude than anything, and I found myself thinking of how much more I could have given him and how that brief moment juxtaposed with the excess of Las Vegas...it was hard to believe that lives differ so greatly only 600 miles apart.
Utterly exhausted and mind-numbed from the trip, immediately I drove from the airport to home, to shower and take a nap before attempting to go to the laboratory. After a bit of work, I faced a rainy drive home to an empty fridge, so I stopped for chicken at Popeye's (an occasional indulgence). A homeless man silently opened the door for me when I approached, and while waiting for my dinner I noticed he opened the door for all the patrons coming and going, never saying a word. Seized by a sudden need to purge my Vegas weekend, I decided to give him a dollar when I left. When I saw my order come up, I realized that they had screwed up my order (giving me more than I'd planned to eat). So when I approached the door and the man opened the door for me, I gave him the dollar and then the food. I smiled and started to walk away, and I saw a pathetically stunned look on his face, a look that I would have branded as sarcastic on a less needy person. But his surprise seemed genuine; I was surprised even more when as I turned to go to my car I saw out of the corner of my eye that he was reaching towards me, arms outstretched, clearly wanting to give me a hug. I returned the gesture, caught in an embrace so tight I felt I'd have bruises on my shoulderblades from the pressure of his grip. I admit I had a moment of fear as I stood there helplessly caught, but I heard him whisper "thank you, thank you" over and over again until I patted his back and wished him good luck, pulling back and rushing out into the drizzle to reach my car. I was unnerved more by the genuine strength of his gratitude than anything, and I found myself thinking of how much more I could have given him and how that brief moment juxtaposed with the excess of Las Vegas...it was hard to believe that lives differ so greatly only 600 miles apart.
01 March 2006
the importance of thumb
Can't do well without your thumbs when you're used to having 'em. That's all I can really say 'bout that. Mind your thumbs. Keep them safe and happy. Don't stick 'em where they don't belong. Don't stress them out.
Musical notes:
1) I did make it to see The King of France last Thursday.
They were great live. So great, in fact, that I didn't mind the nasty vodka collins I slammed down before the show to warm up. I think I smiled the entire time; I probably looked pretty damn goofy. Ah well. Much cheaper than my original plan, which had been to continue to lurk their website until their next NYC event was posted, plunk down as much change as needed to fly back there, and go see a show like the pathetic wanna be groupie I'm not.
2) Little brother's band is going to be performing on March 15th. They are quite nervous, so I want to be sure to have scads of folks there to really freak 'em out. Details can be found at their website (see links to left).
Musical notes:
1) I did make it to see The King of France last Thursday.
They were great live. So great, in fact, that I didn't mind the nasty vodka collins I slammed down before the show to warm up. I think I smiled the entire time; I probably looked pretty damn goofy. Ah well. Much cheaper than my original plan, which had been to continue to lurk their website until their next NYC event was posted, plunk down as much change as needed to fly back there, and go see a show like the pathetic wanna be groupie I'm not.
2) Little brother's band is going to be performing on March 15th. They are quite nervous, so I want to be sure to have scads of folks there to really freak 'em out. Details can be found at their website (see links to left).
23 February 2006
una furtiva lagrima (not the Michael Bolton version)
What in the hell is wrong with me this week? Bad, bad luck. I have been foiled again. Thus far:
1) Refrigerator is dying. Made valiant attempt to prepare by eating rapidly rotting food to prepare for new fridge, only to find that the new one will not be delivered until next Wednesday.
2) Latest two southern blots: one looks great, suggests I have at least two positive clones; the other makes absolutely no sense, and suggests that all the clones are the same.
3) After a long search for all-day wearable boots suitable for work and scootering, the "perfect" pair's calves have stretched out so much in three wearings that I'm going to have to figure out how to keep them up.
4) Bought a bunch of kitty food that I thought he was eating; next day, it's on sale, and he no longer prefers that flavor.
5) Busted my buns last night to get to a good viewing point on Mt. Tam to see the short-lived Zodiacal Lights, only to find that there was too much ambient light from SF and Marin. At least I didn't bother to set up the telescope.
And the latest insult:
5) Timed end of procedure perfectly so that I could go downstairs to watch the free campus movie only to find that the email announcement was wrong and the movie started 45 minutes earlier.
Lest my unlucky streak break soon, this doesn't bode well for my first-ever trip to Vegas next weekend!
CRAP CRAP CRAP NEWS FLASH!!!
So as I'm packin' up to go home, seriously just having finished writing the above, I casually go to my love-from-afar indie band The King of France's website to see if they're ever gonna come to SF for a show, and I SWEAR TO GOD I CAN'T BELIEVE THEY'RE FREAKING HERE TONIGHT PLAYING LIKE RIGHT NOW 5 BLOCKS FROM MY HOUSE!!!
I repeat: What in the hell is wrong with me this week?!
1) Refrigerator is dying. Made valiant attempt to prepare by eating rapidly rotting food to prepare for new fridge, only to find that the new one will not be delivered until next Wednesday.
2) Latest two southern blots: one looks great, suggests I have at least two positive clones; the other makes absolutely no sense, and suggests that all the clones are the same.
3) After a long search for all-day wearable boots suitable for work and scootering, the "perfect" pair's calves have stretched out so much in three wearings that I'm going to have to figure out how to keep them up.
4) Bought a bunch of kitty food that I thought he was eating; next day, it's on sale, and he no longer prefers that flavor.
5) Busted my buns last night to get to a good viewing point on Mt. Tam to see the short-lived Zodiacal Lights, only to find that there was too much ambient light from SF and Marin. At least I didn't bother to set up the telescope.
And the latest insult:
5) Timed end of procedure perfectly so that I could go downstairs to watch the free campus movie only to find that the email announcement was wrong and the movie started 45 minutes earlier.
Lest my unlucky streak break soon, this doesn't bode well for my first-ever trip to Vegas next weekend!
CRAP CRAP CRAP NEWS FLASH!!!
So as I'm packin' up to go home, seriously just having finished writing the above, I casually go to my love-from-afar indie band The King of France's website to see if they're ever gonna come to SF for a show, and I SWEAR TO GOD I CAN'T BELIEVE THEY'RE FREAKING HERE TONIGHT PLAYING LIKE RIGHT NOW 5 BLOCKS FROM MY HOUSE!!!
I repeat: What in the hell is wrong with me this week?!
the open road
It has been cold, cold this last week, but it seems we're on our way to a warming trend now. This is bad news, because the lure of scootering in a very non-commuter fashion is proving irresistible. I've found myself diverting a little on the way to work -- when the traffic has calmed down and the skies are clear and bright and the air is cool enough to keep you alert but not so cold your helmet fogs up, conditions are perfect for a little scoot-sightseeing. And seeing the City from a scooter perspective is fun. Hills provide thrills, and the roads provide just enough obstacles to make the ride challenging, and each neighborhood has an intensely different smell...well, it's just glorious. It is quite tempting to avoid the vexations that await me at work and go for a little ride. When you're getting 70+ miles to the gallon, it'd be a shame to not let the little beast run free for a while, right?
09 February 2006
when is eight enough?
Ok, so it's taken me a full day to recover from Tuesday night's events. I had to repeat my stories at least four times yesterday, so I honestly couldn't bear to write about it until now.
Speed dating was, well, as my last date of the night opined, "a life experience". Whatever that means. It's definitely going to be an experience that's hard to forget.
Opening Act
I managed to find parking on the far side of the Modern Art museum at 7:00: a bad sign. This meant this was the luckiest I was going to get all evening, me being a devout practicioner of "limited good" philosophy. I met Liz and Matt at the entrance to the Metreon. Mo, the evening's mastermind, had not made it off the waitlist (apparently more men than women sign up? another sign) so he was going to sneak in at the beginning to wish us luck. Liz looked fab as always and Matt didn't wear a tee-shirt.
We registered at the event, which entailed picking up the modern version of a dance card and filling out my nametag: first name followed by a "random" three digit number. The "tips" on the card ranged from "Keep an open mind" to a list of fallback questions ("Do you keep up with current events? What's your favorite drink?"). Matt and Liz and I picked up our first drinks of the night at the bar then settled down to strategize and warm up for the evening. Somehow the conversation moved from personal ads to "missed connections" ads. I explained that I’d considered looking to see whether my latest flirtation with a stranger had inspired such an ad:
Me: “So I was in line at the hospital cafeteria and the grill chef asked whether I wanted everything on the side of my quesadilla. When I said ‘no guacamole’ the cute scrubs-clad guy in front of me said, ‘I’ll take her guacamole’ to which I replied, ‘Hey, you can have my guacamole any time.’ He was quite attractive, but I doubt that kind of interaction would have him writing something in the school newspaper.”
Matt: “You said that?!? You’re my new hero.”
Mo showed up just a few minutes before the event started, looking dejected. We all were upset he wasn’t going to join in on the “fun”, wishing we could’ve seen him in action. Though we’ve all seen him organizing action, this would have been quite a different experience.
Scene: at a bar
The format was this: my dance card had eight numbers on it, signifying the numbers of a table (or half-table; sometimes a table for four was shared by two couples) at which I would sit for date #1, 2, etc. for an eight-minute encounter with the person who was also randomly assigned to my table for the session. After eight minutes of enthralling conversation, a bell would sound the end of that date and I’d move on to another table. After four dates, we had a fifteen minute break during which I could have used the restroom or chatted up other guys. Instead, Liz and Matt and I headed back to the bar for round two. (Interesting side note: we ordered the same drinks as we had before the event. First round, I bought, and the tab came to $12. Second round, Matt bought, and the tab came to $10. What the hell?!?)
Though I won’t go into details about the dates to respect the privacy of those eight sad individuals, I will say that it became immensely clear that the reason most of those guys were there was that they were some combination of shy, socially awkward, living in a dismal Bay Area town (sometimes with Ma and Pa), and/or cluelessly repellent. And I, being the nice and not-so awkward person that I am, tried very hard to draw out my dates and keep a light, amused manner. But every single date was not worth pursuing. Only one actually asked what I'm studying as a grad student...every one else gave me a glazed-eyed shudder when I told them I'm trying to get my Ph.D. Had I had any interest in a second date or “friendship”, I could have logged on to the dating service website to see if any of my dates had a similar interest in me.
Interestingly, Matt had some success with the women. He declared they all had been “normal” and he was interested in pursuing a few new connections. Most of the women were San Franciscans, while all but one of my dates had been from out-of-town. Clearly there was a very interesting divide between the two gender pools for the night. The only criterion for the event had been that attendees were from 25-35 years of age.
Dénoument
Liz, Matt and I “debriefed” at a nearby bar afterwards. Liz and I had shared two dates that night, so it was interesting to find that though we’d had very different conversations, that our impressions were quite similar. We toasted to “love” or “next time” – I can’t recall – and eventually talk degenerated into the usual student politics and state of higher education discussion, with a dash of juicy gossip for good measure. By the end of the evening we were all in a bit of a daze – I couldn’t bring myself to swallow my last bit of Hefeweisen and for some unknown reason I found myself stripping my onion rings of their battered shells and eating just the crunchy batter. Yes, it disgusts me now but after that evening it just seemed to make sense to eat them that way.
Finale
As I walked to my car, the phone rang. Little brother was calling me. I’d told him what I was doing that night (at which point he told me about the “Sex in the City” ep where Miranda has more success speed dating when she stops telling her dates she’s an attorney and instead says she’s a flight attendant) the previous Saturday (when I got to see him in action – eew) so I gave him the run-down. Though he was sympathetic, he tried to cheer me up by declaring that clearly the women there were most likely all intelligent, ambitious women who don’t have the time or inclination to go cruising through bars to look for men while the guys were all the ones who don’t have success in bars and are desperate. God bless little brothers. Of course, now he thinks he ought to give it a try knowing he’d shine like the sex-and-rock god he wants to be in such a crowd.
I recounted my experiences several times to my co-workers yesterday, and through the various retellings two observations arose:
(From Dave, on Men and Women): “Maybe the difference in these things is that women have higher standards in what they’re looking for in a guy, but most guys really don’t care.”
(From Me, on Me): “I don’t usually think of myself this way, because I usually just think of myself as a loner, but I’m extroverted, too. I’m an extroverted loner.”
Speed dating was, well, as my last date of the night opined, "a life experience". Whatever that means. It's definitely going to be an experience that's hard to forget.
Opening Act
I managed to find parking on the far side of the Modern Art museum at 7:00: a bad sign. This meant this was the luckiest I was going to get all evening, me being a devout practicioner of "limited good" philosophy. I met Liz and Matt at the entrance to the Metreon. Mo, the evening's mastermind, had not made it off the waitlist (apparently more men than women sign up? another sign) so he was going to sneak in at the beginning to wish us luck. Liz looked fab as always and Matt didn't wear a tee-shirt.
We registered at the event, which entailed picking up the modern version of a dance card and filling out my nametag: first name followed by a "random" three digit number. The "tips" on the card ranged from "Keep an open mind" to a list of fallback questions ("Do you keep up with current events? What's your favorite drink?"). Matt and Liz and I picked up our first drinks of the night at the bar then settled down to strategize and warm up for the evening. Somehow the conversation moved from personal ads to "missed connections" ads. I explained that I’d considered looking to see whether my latest flirtation with a stranger had inspired such an ad:
Me: “So I was in line at the hospital cafeteria and the grill chef asked whether I wanted everything on the side of my quesadilla. When I said ‘no guacamole’ the cute scrubs-clad guy in front of me said, ‘I’ll take her guacamole’ to which I replied, ‘Hey, you can have my guacamole any time.’ He was quite attractive, but I doubt that kind of interaction would have him writing something in the school newspaper.”
Matt: “You said that?!? You’re my new hero.”
Mo showed up just a few minutes before the event started, looking dejected. We all were upset he wasn’t going to join in on the “fun”, wishing we could’ve seen him in action. Though we’ve all seen him organizing action, this would have been quite a different experience.
Scene: at a bar
The format was this: my dance card had eight numbers on it, signifying the numbers of a table (or half-table; sometimes a table for four was shared by two couples) at which I would sit for date #1, 2, etc. for an eight-minute encounter with the person who was also randomly assigned to my table for the session. After eight minutes of enthralling conversation, a bell would sound the end of that date and I’d move on to another table. After four dates, we had a fifteen minute break during which I could have used the restroom or chatted up other guys. Instead, Liz and Matt and I headed back to the bar for round two. (Interesting side note: we ordered the same drinks as we had before the event. First round, I bought, and the tab came to $12. Second round, Matt bought, and the tab came to $10. What the hell?!?)
Though I won’t go into details about the dates to respect the privacy of those eight sad individuals, I will say that it became immensely clear that the reason most of those guys were there was that they were some combination of shy, socially awkward, living in a dismal Bay Area town (sometimes with Ma and Pa), and/or cluelessly repellent. And I, being the nice and not-so awkward person that I am, tried very hard to draw out my dates and keep a light, amused manner. But every single date was not worth pursuing. Only one actually asked what I'm studying as a grad student...every one else gave me a glazed-eyed shudder when I told them I'm trying to get my Ph.D. Had I had any interest in a second date or “friendship”, I could have logged on to the dating service website to see if any of my dates had a similar interest in me.
Interestingly, Matt had some success with the women. He declared they all had been “normal” and he was interested in pursuing a few new connections. Most of the women were San Franciscans, while all but one of my dates had been from out-of-town. Clearly there was a very interesting divide between the two gender pools for the night. The only criterion for the event had been that attendees were from 25-35 years of age.
Dénoument
Liz, Matt and I “debriefed” at a nearby bar afterwards. Liz and I had shared two dates that night, so it was interesting to find that though we’d had very different conversations, that our impressions were quite similar. We toasted to “love” or “next time” – I can’t recall – and eventually talk degenerated into the usual student politics and state of higher education discussion, with a dash of juicy gossip for good measure. By the end of the evening we were all in a bit of a daze – I couldn’t bring myself to swallow my last bit of Hefeweisen and for some unknown reason I found myself stripping my onion rings of their battered shells and eating just the crunchy batter. Yes, it disgusts me now but after that evening it just seemed to make sense to eat them that way.
Finale
As I walked to my car, the phone rang. Little brother was calling me. I’d told him what I was doing that night (at which point he told me about the “Sex in the City” ep where Miranda has more success speed dating when she stops telling her dates she’s an attorney and instead says she’s a flight attendant) the previous Saturday (when I got to see him in action – eew) so I gave him the run-down. Though he was sympathetic, he tried to cheer me up by declaring that clearly the women there were most likely all intelligent, ambitious women who don’t have the time or inclination to go cruising through bars to look for men while the guys were all the ones who don’t have success in bars and are desperate. God bless little brothers. Of course, now he thinks he ought to give it a try knowing he’d shine like the sex-and-rock god he wants to be in such a crowd.
I recounted my experiences several times to my co-workers yesterday, and through the various retellings two observations arose:
(From Dave, on Men and Women): “Maybe the difference in these things is that women have higher standards in what they’re looking for in a guy, but most guys really don’t care.”
(From Me, on Me): “I don’t usually think of myself this way, because I usually just think of myself as a loner, but I’m extroverted, too. I’m an extroverted loner.”
04 February 2006
i know i'm going to regret this, but...
two guy friends might have successfully talked me into joining them for a night of 8-minute speed dating. Right now, I can't imagine a bigger waste of $35, and it's highly likely anyone I'm paired with will feel the same about their lost 8 minutes with me, but oh, the stories I'll be able to tell the next day...maybe it will be worth it.
25 January 2006
one of my few failings
I'm just a few pages away from finishing my latest read, "When We Were Orphans" by Kazuo Ishiguro. Like his other works, this book tackles heady themes: integrity, grief, and in this book, the frailty or tenuousness of memory. It's essentially a treatise on memory, how much we rely on it to justify our existence and make the failings of the present tolerable, but how it is truly a tenuous and sometimes treacherous crutch. It's made an interesting foil to my previous read, David Sedaris' "Dress Your Family In Corduroy and Denim", which is a collection of amusing and sometimes poignant vignettes from the author's child- and young adulthood. As I read that book, I was struck at how unlikely it was that I was reading actual events from Sedaris' past; no one can be that blessed with such a crisp and accurate memory. If I am wrong, then good for him, and how pathetic am I. It is only with great struggle that I can dredge memories from equivalent ages; even when prompted by childhood acquaintances or family antectdotes I sometimes find it difficult to believe I was even present during such events. Day-to-day little forgetfulness I can forgive, though it is tremendously annoying; but it is the thought that so much of my past has disappeared into the ether that makes me curse my lousy brain for its feebleness. I'd be tempted to theorize that I suffer from some dark dirty Freud-style repression but alas no I think I have no such excuse.
10 January 2006
embracing the nerd
Whoa. It feels as though it's been quite a while since my last post. I've been cramming at lab this last week and was rewarded with conflicting, confusing results and a resurgence of my Christmas cold. Grr. This resulted, of course, in a defiant streak during which I took to rethinking the way my apartment is decorated (if one can see past the clutter), starting a new crochet project, the running of assorted necessary and unnecessary errands, and a teeny trip home. A night in my bed at my parents' house is easily the equivalent of 2.7 nights in my San Francisco bed.
Today I journeyed SOMA to partake of my annual pilgrimage to the Mecca of Macdom: opening day of MacWorld Expo 2006. Oh, how the Moscone Center is transformed into the center of the computing world on this day! The ill-accoutured faithful amass outside the entrance hall if they weren't so lucky to make it inside for Steve's keynote address, quivering with excitement as banners unfurl to reveal the newest product ad. Once inside, the language changes, paces quicken, the air is charged with static electricity and likely enough wi-fi waves to make one's hair stand on end. It's a circus, it's overwhelming, and it's vastly entertaining. Apple sure knows how to run a great show.
Today I journeyed SOMA to partake of my annual pilgrimage to the Mecca of Macdom: opening day of MacWorld Expo 2006. Oh, how the Moscone Center is transformed into the center of the computing world on this day! The ill-accoutured faithful amass outside the entrance hall if they weren't so lucky to make it inside for Steve's keynote address, quivering with excitement as banners unfurl to reveal the newest product ad. Once inside, the language changes, paces quicken, the air is charged with static electricity and likely enough wi-fi waves to make one's hair stand on end. It's a circus, it's overwhelming, and it's vastly entertaining. Apple sure knows how to run a great show.
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